


so what if my bones are the same as the earth

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, M/M, people die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:50:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "Why were you watching football?" he asks.Carragher tilts his head."Didn't you?"





	so what if my bones are the same as the earth

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this over the course of ... at least eight months so coherency should not be expected
> 
> this became a lot less about football than i would have expected or liked but that was also kind of cathartic in a way

 

 

A preface:

  * David doesn't make it.



 

 

 

 

_\- Red Devil. Come in. Can you hear me? - Come in, Red Devil. Come in, goddamnit. - Beckham. Neville. Come the fuck in. - David. Gary. Can you hear me? -  Fuck! - It's still standing. How is it - One of them's got to be. - No signatures. - Hello? - Come in. Come in. -_

 

 

 

 

Gary opens his eyes. There's sand in his hair and water seeping down the back of his suit. He blinks, sits up and hacks his guts out, lungs burning from the half of the Pacific Ocean that he'd drunk.

 _How,_ he thinks, and then, _Becks_. The rotors of a helicopter sound in the distance. On the horizon there's what looks almost like a rock formation, only he knows it isn't. "Becks," he says out loud, pushing himself to his feet. Limps into the water that licks his ankles. The helicopter. It's such a sunny day. "Becks." He walks further out. "Becks." He walks and walks into the sea.

 

 

 

 

"When?"

It's rasped in the thick Scots brogue of the gaffer and it takes a moment before Gary registers that he's talking to him.

"Sir," he says, slowly, trying to sit up, though the gaffer puts a hand on his shoulder and presses him down. "The doctors would know better - "

"I bloody well know that," the gaffer interrupts, before catching himself quick. "Gary. I know that." He turns to a chart next to the bed. "Broken ankle, twelve weeks. Rib fractures, six weeks. Puncture wound, five weeks. Solo piloting."

Ah.

Gary feels the shock like a ripple, then numbness. He wonders if it'll ever go away.

The gaffer's lips are drawn back and his brow is heavy. _Yous can call me boss or gaffer_ , he'd told all of them the first day, _because that's what I am. Not Marshal, and definitely not fucking Alex, unless you're looking to get the fucking boot. Ranks mean fuck all out here. You respect me and I'll respect you._

He'd loved David too, they all had, and so Gary meets his eyes and squares his jaw. "Whenever you need me," he says.

 

 

 

 

They'd posted most of the English to Sydney; the joke was that no one else stood a chance of understanding the accents. The truth was that no one else was stupid enough to take on the widest defence perimeter of all the Shatterdomes. Alex Ferguson didn't get his knighthood by shying away from challenges, and neither did the people that he picked.

Gary'd been what, fourteen, when the first Kaiju attack happened. Felt ages away. GCSEs and all of that - three months on no one gave a toss how many As you'd got, everyone out of their minds with what the next would bring. Didn't matter that they weren't anywhere near the Pacific. Hole in the ground one place, could happen anywhere.

Shipped straight off for the Jaeger Academy when he was old enough. Knew he had to do something, like, and anyway Tracey could fight a sodding Kaiju off on her own and they all knew it. Wasn't easy, but Gary had never liked easy. Never liked anything that wasn't a challenge.

Met David. Drifted on the first pass. So it goes.

 

 

 

 

"Oi, hero."

Weeks of hospital and Gary's hobbling around physio, trying to sort his ankle into some semblance of a working joint. The voice comes from Scholesy, who's stood laconically against a wall, arms folded. First day in the Shatterdome and Gary had been yelled at three times by a ginger too small to have that much breath in him. Best mates ever since.

"Fuck off."

In a manner of speaking.

"Nice to see you, too."

Technically the J-Tech officers ought to stay in the LOCCENT, but there aren't really any rules for Scholesy, who elicits a loving fondness in the gaffer that borders on the faintly ridiculous. Scholesy pushes off the wall and slouches towards Gary, tilting his head towards one of the television screens in the room. "Been keeping up with current affairs?"

"Not interested in who you're sleeping with right now, thanks." Gary grunts and wrenches himself forward on the bar thing. Much to the exasperation of the med techs he'd flat out refused to use any terminology on the basis that he'd rather die than learn to walk again.

"You're all over it." Scholesy makes a face. "Kids demanding your autograph; I've told them not to bother, there're other miserable gits in the world." He pauses. "And we've almost fixed her. She'll be ready when you are."

There's a loaded provocation in that, of course. A reason why it was the gaffer's favourite who came down to see him. Not just because he wanted to slag off Gary, although Gary was sure that was part of it.

He gets off the bar thing. Hobbles towards the wall and sinks down against it, one leg tucked in, the other stretched out. Scholesy follows on his haunches. His flat stare, always unsettling, makes Gary feel like it's harder to breathe.

"I'll need a new partner."

"Yeah."

"You've already got a list."

"I've already got a list."

Gary tries his best to crack a grin. Scholesy tries his best not to notice.

"Two weeks," he says.

 

 

 

 

The profiles lie in a stack beside his bed. He flicks through them the day before he's supposed to meet them, which goes some way to explaining his state of mind. None of them appeal. Too loud, too militaristic, too by the book. He's a certain kind of temperament - he's a difficult kind of temperament - and that goes with stupid crazy standards. The first drift was hard enough.

He smiles into the sheaf of paper and thinks, christ, Becks, where the fuck did you go?

 

 

 

 

Years on and they haven't introduced any changes to the candidate selection process, which irks Gary unnecessarily. You'd think they'd have come up with some fast-track method for figuring out who you were drift compatible with. Dig into their brains or summat.

"I don't like any of them," he says to Scholesy just before. "This is going to be a massive waste of time."

"Take it up with the gaffer," Scholesy shrugs, and that's that.

One. Two. Four. Some of them beat him and then look pleased with themselves, but that's not what the match is about. Taken Gary a long time to get it himself. It's balance they're looking for, not for better or for worse.

Funny turn of phrase.

Eight and Gary didn't even know they were churning out that many pilots, or lost that many more. Faces and names he knows have gathered at the edges. Should've kept up with current affairs, eh, Neville. "Stop," he says when Ryan steps into the ring alone, face worn and old-looking. "Stop."

Scholesy clicks the timer. "We're done for today," he says.

 

 

 

 

"Maybe I should just - "

"Not finishing that sentence would be a good start."

Gary picks at his food, made all the more unappetising through the metal trays they come in. "I can be useful elsewhere. Not spending my time fighting idiots. How the hell did Fellaini graduate?"

Scholesy shrugs. "You're good at what you do, Gaz. So it takes some time to find someone new. So what?"

"Mind if we - "

New voice. Scouse voice. Gary's head snaps up inevitably, his mouth in the midst of forming the words _fuck off_ before he remembers that this isn't chucking bottles at each other down the M62. Scholesy gives him a good kick under the table for his troubles.

"Of course."

Gerrard grins apologetically at them. "Just that there wasn't anywhere else."

It's the end of the world. He can be civil. Besides, Gerrard and Alonso's record on Pacemaker is nothing to be sniffed at, and Gary prides himself on giving credit where credit's due.

"Back where you don't belong, Neville?"

Carragher, obviously, is another matter.

"You're one to talk," Gary retorts, and almost as if on cue the other three make minute but significant shifts away from the impending doom. "Come back when you've actually done something beyond destroying your own jaeger, why don't you?"

"That was a malfunction," Carragher says immediately. "Anyway, everyone knows the LOCCENT is where the brains go."

There's no real reason for them to dislike each other beyond the fact that they _do_. They'd come in through the Academy around the same time and spent most of that trying to outdo each other for first in class, the invariable placing of themselves as third or fourth notwithstanding. Football was still going on then and Gary had taken Carragher's Rush jersey as something of a personal offence. A short session of fisticuffs outside class, punishment laps, and the hatred seventeen-year-olds were capable of fielding had sealed the deal.

Eight years on and they've both grown up slightly, open warfare mellowing into subconscious irritation and dampened by the fact that they don't see each other much. Gary works with Scholesy, Carragher works with Pacemaker, and anyhow both are willing to put aside their differences if it means not being fired and having to trust a shelter to save your life.

That isn't to say that they aren't still up for sniping at each other given the barest of chances. "Pilots," Carragher resumes with authority, "are all brawn and no brains. No offence, Stevie."

"None taken."

"That's just what people whose own stupid DNA exiled them to the LOCCENT say," Gary retorts, stabbing at his lonely carrot. "No offence, Scholesy."

"All taken."

"I hate to interrupt this delightful conversation," Alonso interrupts without a trace of aforementioned hatred, "but I am quite hungry."

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence bar some terrible attempts at small talk never directly in relation to each other. Chairs are shoved in, and just before they leave Gerrard catches Gary's eye and says, "I'm sorry, Neville."

Alonso tilts his head. Only Carragher walks past him muttering _wanker_ under his breath, the first person not to bring it up. It's almost, Gary thinks, heartening.

 

 

 

 

They come.

Gary ends up in the LOCCENT with Scholesy and the gaffer, grim-faced and thin-lipped, as Steelcutter shears Brisbane in two. The army's missiles do nothing to the kaiju's scales. "ETA three minutes," Carragher counts down next to them, watching the path of Pacemaker on a bright blue console. His brow is knit and he hasn't even glanced up since Gary walked in.

In fact no one speaks, bar to call out instructions or updates. ETA two minutes. Steady. Power normal. Vital signs normal. One minute.

Pacemaker lands in a spray of sea foam and sand. "Engaging," says Alonso, his voice crisp and far-away at the same time.

It's different. Entirely. When you're fighting you don't _think_ you just _do_ but all of this is thinking, thinking too much, thinking and hoping and trying to control something you have no control over. A manager standing at the touchline while his players are taken to pieces.

Steelcutter is long, four-legged, a tail with a scythe on the end of it. "Doesn't need the tail for balance," Carragher says into the mic. "Could go anywhere."

"Copy," Gerrard says. Pacemaker sinks into a crouch at the end of a narrow street, waiting. Vital signs normal. When Steelcutter attacks it scrapes its claws down the sides of the buildings, bounding down the street unexpectedly fast. The first Plasmacaster shot goes wide with the speed. Pacemaker shifts in its balance, drops, meets Steelcutter in a right uppercut that throws them both off balance crashing through the skyscrapers along the river.

"Five seconds till recharge."

"It's coming back round. Nine o'clock."

Pacemaker swings back up, unleashing its left Plasmacaster just as Steelcutter mauls it. " _Tail_ ," Carragher yells at the scythe curling in from behind; the jaeger reaches its right arm out and catches it barely, the blade scratching the metal on its ribs.

"Both cannons recharged."

"The tail's like a bloody arm, it's - "

It breaks free of Pacemaker's grasp and slices right through the cannon. Carragher winces as if he's in the Conn-Pod with them.

"Right Plasmacaster down. Come on, lads."

With the stump of its right hand Pacemaker knocks the tail away, then spins and slams its shoulder into Steelcutter's ragged, weeping wound. The kaiju roars and stumbles, an open target for the remaining cannon. One shot - straight through the eye - Steelcutter pitches forward, but the tail's still there like it's got a life of its own, up and back, slicing towards Pacemaker's chest from behind.

"Still alive," Carragher says, hands slammed on the desk, standing up, voice pitchy and ragged. "Still alive - "

Gary can see what's going to happen before it does. The path mapped out in slow motion, arcs traced through the air, because it's what he would have done had he been there. There isn't any other way out.

Maybe one of them says something over the radio; it crackles and whines and chokes as Pacemaker grabs Steelcutter's tail and shoves it straight through itself, the blade coming out the other end and cleanly shearing both jaeger and kaiju in two.

Communication dead. Power dead. Vital signs dead.

Carragher sits down. Exhales, slowly. Looks up at the gaffer and says, "no signals detected."

Gary looks down at his hands. They have curled into fists.

 

 

 

 

This is a war they are not winning. That's the truth, even if no one wants to say it. Already the programme's funds are being cut after Gipsy Danger, and more and more jaegers are ending up in Oblivion Bay. Children still want to be pilots, but training is long and the time taken to build jaegers is even longer.

This is a war they are not going to win. That's the truth, even if no one wants to say it. What else is there to do but pick yourself up and try again. What else is there to do but hope against hope.

 

 

 

 

The corridors are quiet at two in the morning when Gary decides that he can't sleep and pulls on his shoes. He's not been to other Shatterdomes, but for what it's worth Sydney is built to be comfortable, carpets for rooms and a rec centre packed with anything they'd imagined the staff would want.

Gary heads for the counter wanting to make a hot chocolate when he hears a noise behind him. It's Carragher, sat on the sofa facing the telly, watching football.

An old game. Gary doesn't recognise it, but then he doesn't recognise any Liverpool games short of the ones United win. He hasn't seen football on the telly for years. Told himself once they'd stopped the league that there wasn't a point anymore. Told himself to move on.

Eightieth minute. Liverpool are losing. Five one to - Gary has to squint to remember what team it is - Stoke. Six one. That's something even by Liverpool's standards. Why anyone would watch something like this again he's got no clue.

He shifts a cup inadvertently with his fingers; it scrapes across the counter and Carragher starts. Turns back and stares.

"Couldn't sleep," Gary says by way of explanation, his mouth dry even though he's got every right to be here. It still feels like he's intruded on something.

Carragher's eyes shift down to the cup in his hands.

"Tea?"

"Hot chocolate."

"Get us one."

Gary grabs another cup and pours the milk in. Heats it up in the microwave till it goes _ding_ and stirs in the chocolate. It isn't particularly good but it's sweet and unhealthy and just what the both of them probably need.

The game's finished by the time he sits down on the sofa, the far end, cautiously handing the mug over to Carragher, their knuckles knocking against each other as he does.

Carragher takes a long sip and says, "this is shite."

Gary rolls his eyes. "Give it back, then."

"I'll drink it. Just thought you should know it's shite."

They drink. The heat burns Gary's throat and does nothing to make him feel less awake.

"You wash the mugs," he says. "The one on your face, too."

Carragher, to his surprise, laughs. No snappy comeback or disgruntled eyeballing, just an actual laugh. He reaches over and snatches the mug out of Gary's hands. Their knuckles again. These small pieces are suddenly clarion clear in Gary's mind for no reason at all; the brightness of the telly flare, the low hum of the air conditioning.

"Why were you watching football?" he asks.

Carragher tilts his head.

"Didn't you?"

 

 

 

 

A page from a book stuffed into the bottom of a locker, unopened for years:

  * _How'd you fuckin lose to the Yokohama F. Marinos_
  * _1-0_
  * _MK Dons._
  * _Couldn't score against Fulham 80 crosses_
  * _Ninth and Newcastle christ_
  * _Third round FA Cup and we're fucking out_
  * _3-0_
  * _3-0 again_
  * _Sunderland are just Newcastle but worse_
  * _Next season then. Next season._



 

 

 

 

In the morning when he goes for breakfast he sees two mugs face-down on the kitchen counter. One of them's got a sticky-note on it. He reads, _tried but couldn't get rid of that ugly line in the middle of your mug._

"It's not ugly," he says aloud, frowning, and then instinctively reaches up to feel how deep the crease is. "Fuck's sake."

"Talking to yourself again?"

Scholesy's sat at the island drinking tea and looking like the dictionary definition of a right prick. "No," Gary mumbles, sinking into the seat opposite him and staring at his fingers.

"Good. Try not to go crazy before you go back into the field."

"The new batch are hopeless, Scholesy."

"We'll find someone." Scholesy puts down his cup and looks at Gary, his gaze flat. "Until the Aussies finish their new jaeger we've only got two of them left. And the lads in Hong Kong aren't going to be able to fly down fast enough if anything happens."

Gary bites his lip. "No. Yeah. I know."

 

 

 

 

Some of them look too young to be there in the first place, although they put up a good fight; there's nothing that _clicks_ , and what use is a machine if there's no heart to it?

Should've thought of that before building a seven thousand tonne monster.

They're trying Ryan out too, he knows, because he sees him sometimes in the ring. Ryan still won't tell him what happened with Butty or the Wizard and even Scholesy's reluctant to say. He doesn't make progress, either. What the hell. They're just two tired, old guys pretending to be something they aren't anymore.

Haunted by the weight they carry. He hears David still, settling into the scars on his ankle, the lines on his palms.

 

 

 

 

He finds Carragher outside again, watching another game. The derby this time. Liverpool are losing to Everton and Gary wants to make a joke about it except for the stillness that sits in Carragher's shoulders.

"Hot chocolate?" he asks instead, and without looking around Carragher moves to make space for him on the sofa.

 

 

 

 

The gaffer comes over to his canteen table at lunch. Stands there just enough to make Gary feel uncomfortable, to focus on the shoveling of food into his mouth like he's been starving for weeks.

"Have you seen her?"

Gary blinks.

"No."

It hadn't even occurred to him. Like he'd purposely put it out of mind, a taped-up cardboard box in the corner of a room with no light, waiting to be buried. Too many strings attached. The gaffer says _have you seen her?_ and he thinks _will I see him?_

"You should."

His eyes are light behind his glasses, far too intent to be casual. "Yeah," Gary finds the words falling out of his mouth, as they're prone to doing around the gaffer, "I should."

"Go tonight when it's quiet. I'll have one of the techs bring you."

 

 

 

 

The Shatterdome's mostly dark when Gary steps in, only the LOCCENT glowing dim blue as the night shift keeps a watch. No one else on the long runway that goes by the bays, just pressed-down darkness in a room too big to have ever been built.

Why is he here - why are any or all of them here. Before they came there was Starbucks and football and cracks in the pavement that you'd cautiously sidestep. Now only fear of a tragedy, every day.

"Neville."

The voice materialises before the face - Gary starts, having expected Scholesy. But it's Carragher's ugly mug that surfaces instead, craggy and square and pissed in either definition of the word.

"The gaffer asked you?"

"I expect it's part of his torture campaign against Scousers."

"He probably can't understand when you tell him to stop."

Carragher snorts, but there's no menace in it. "A real pot-calling-the-kettle-black moment." He turns on his heel, signalling Gary to follow him into the dark.

They walk in silence. Once or twice Gary opens his mouth because he can't, technically, keep it shut, but then there's something flat in Carragher's face that persuades him otherwise.

"Here."

The word cuts clean through the silence, as does the swipe of Carragher's card; lights run up either column of the bay, throwing shadows against the bulk of the jaeger that stands inside. Scholesy's done a bang-up job. Everything's sleek and freshly painted and they've even got the stripes of white running up the side just like before. _Our Adidas tribute_ , he'd told David quite seriously, who'd laughed at him.

Serrated blades along the edges of the forearms. Heavy knuckledusters adorn the fists - she always was a jaeger that exploded in close for the kill. Nuclear vortex turbine repaired and replaced exactly as it once was, down to the scar from their first fight. The embossed devil on the chest plate.

He thinks of Scholesy working on this alone, too sad and proud to let anyone else touch. They had all loved.

"Perfect condition," Carragher says. "Brand new. Just needs another pilot."

Gary steps forward and puts a hand on the metal. It's cold the way he'd imagine a trophy to be.

"Haven't had much luck with that."

"I know. I watched."

"You did?"

Gary hadn't even noticed him. Granted he made it a point not to notice Carragher most of the time, but there are still worrying implications for his powers of observation.

"Was bored." Carragher shrugs. "Thought it might be fun to see you get beat up."

"Huh. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"Not - really."

Carragher's face has taken on some kind of a pained expression, as if he can't quite get the words out through gritted teeth. He sticks one hand out and closes it over Gary's wrist, too quick for Gary to say anything, pulls it up into a low hand guard. "You always set up like that." He leans back and throws a soft jab towards Gary, who instinctively rolls it onto his shoulder and sets up for the counter. But Carragher's waiting there for him, catching the punch with his own guard.

"The shoulder throws them off and you hit them quick because they're expecting something traditional from you."

In the light-dark of the room he looks different somehow; older, graver, less a caricature of a Scouser than an actual human being. Gary thinks without noticing of the night they drank hot chocolate.

"And you are traditional, but not in the way they expect." He rocks back and steps forward again, a right hook this time. "Like one of 'em solid English defenders, except you're the fullback that no one wants to be." Gary meets Carragher with the block, shifts his feet. Tiny movements are starting to click in his brain, like he'd never noticed them before. The weight of Carragher's fist.

With the turn in his balance he goes for a short cross but once again Carragher blocks him, knowing exactly where he was going. But he takes no pleasure in it, like some of the other cadets had; it's more of an understanding, an acknowledgement. An _I know you_ even if he shouldn't.

He follows up on the offensive now, pivoting rightwards and swinging in with his left hand. Once again Carragher's there, although then so is Gary waiting for him. Punch-block-punch. Skin warm against skin. They don't have gloves and so all of their moves are soft under the dimness of the jaeger bay, almost caresses.

Back-forth-back goes the dance along the long corridor, and without force they're still panting like dogs who ran too hard too fast. Carragher says less and less. Gary doesn't say anything at all.

They're seventeen years old and fighting outside class, each punch a memory. They're nineteen and one of them has just slagged off the other's mum. Twenty and their histories are being laid out in front of them, like a split lip.

Carragher stops his fist right below Gary's chin.

"Checkmate," he murmurs, grinning, his smile ghostly pale.

"You muppet," Gary says back, realising in that instant what it means - this whole charade - knowing that Carragher's realised it as well. "That's the wrong game."

 

 

 

 

Documentation for Red Devil (Mk III):

  * Made in Manchester, UK, 2017
  * 80.6 metres tall
  * 1,999 tonnes
  * Arc-9 reactor energy core
  * Jaeger A.I. 98BD/Hyper-Torque Drivers; Nuclear Vortex Turbine; 10TK/Gyro Stabilizers; 08FS/Oceanic Cooling Vents
  * Piloted by David Beckham (2017 - 2020), Gary Neville (2017 - present)



 

 

 

 

Scholesy laughs. Of course he does.

"I don't have to like him to do well with him," says Gary by way of explanation, tinged as it is with a note of exasperation bordering on helplessness. What can you do when you realise your partner is the person you've spent years antagonising? Nothing much, really.

"Nah. It's just - I'm imagining him in a jaeger with the United crest on it."

"Oh, god, you're right. He'd never do that. He'd try to make us take it off."

"Keep it. Tell him to pay for it himself if he doesn't want it."

"I plan on not talking to him as much as possible."

"You'll be in his brain, you bum."

It sets the both of them off like schoolkids. There's something deeply amusing about all of this, Jamie sodding Carragher as his co-pilot, and if it hadn't been under the duress of the world ending maybe they'd have more chance to be mad about it.

But the world is ending. And if Gary has to get into the brain of a Scouser and watch very bad memories about Liverpool to save it then he bloody will.

Besides -

It's clutching at straws, this, and he knows it, but Carragher hasn't seemed all bad recently. At least now he knows that they can carry a conversation without the mutual need to poison each other's drinks. Which isn't quite the level of best friends forever, but it's a start.

A start. Everything ends, only to begin again. Everything ends, but nothing ever stops.

 

 

 

 

Carragher shows up for training in his Rush jersey. Of course he does.

He doesn't meet Gary's eye as Scholesy begins the briefing, nor to be fair does Gary try to look at him too much. He's almost hoping that the drift-test won't go well - that they'll fall apart even before they start, or something. To save them the ignominy of having to put up with each other for likely the rest of their lives.

But he also knows this is the first real shot he's had since - that, so.

"I hope you both remember how to pilot a jaeger," Scholesy says dryly. "Seeing as it's been a while."

"More him than me," Gary snipes. "And mine wasn't my own fault."

"That's probably what Moyes said about his tenure," Carragher snipes back, for some reason thinking that ancient history was a good way to get under Gary's skin.

It is. Gary glowers and Scholesy very quickly cuts in.

"First hour just to make sure that everything is okay, that you remember what you're supposed to do in the drivesuits, and second hour to make sure that you don't chase any bloody rabbits. I know that things have happened - " he pauses, here, glances quickly up at each of them - "but we go on."

Why they're doing what they do. They run the first hour quick - switches and codes come to Gary with muscle memory, fingers to buttons in actions he can't forget. Even Carragher kicks back into it sooner than later. It's written into their circuits the same way it's written into their ships.

The second hour ticks by and Gary waits as the techs lay out his drivesuit, feels the circuitry suit pressed into his skin, the magnetic interfaces clicking into place. He grabs his helmet and pulls it on; red and black and chipped at the edges it feels almost stuffy.

When the relay gel goes into the suit he looks over and sees that Carragher's helmet is red as well. Of course it is.

They step forward and the system locks them in. Tubes, signals, riveted into their backs; it's a simulation but by god does it stick a pit of feeling into his stomach, thinking about the last time he did this.

Don't chase the rabbit. The Drift is silence.

"D'you trust me?"

"What?"

Carragher's voice is tinny through the radio. "Drift only works if you trust the other person. Remember this thing called 'school'?"

"No point bloody asking me, is there," Gary snaps, turning his attention to the start-up buttons and far away from the stupidity he can feel radiating through the channels. "We'll know when we know."

"I trust you."

_"What?"_

"I trust you," Carragher says cheerfully, and at that point Scholesy flicks the switch and _NEURAL HANDSHAKE INITIATED_ rings loud in Gary's ears.

 

 

 

 

philip go to bed it's late - no way, I wanna watch the jaegers too, is that really Sydney? - we have practice tomorrow, shut up and sleep / a patch of grass in a council estate, grey clouds dark overhead, ball at your feet - and here's Carragher, the next Rooney, lining up to take a shot - blue bleeding into the knees scraped on the gravel / ( _Everton?_ Everton? _Oh, that's -_ ) / Stretford End, up the steps, Rooney in red now arms stretched out soaking in the applause, soaking in the song - sing, sing when you're losing, sing when you're out of tune, but sing / Hair doused from the hose Paul and John have turned on you, laughing - you punch one of 'em and the other one catches you in the stomach takes the wind outta your lungs - stop that and come in for dinner / David / ( _Keep it, don't -_ ) / Mickey eyes bright helmet under his arm - give us a kiss, and you had / communication dead power dead vital signs dead / ( _Don't -_ )

 

 

 

 

"They're out of alignment. They're both out of alignment."

"Fuck. Lads. Can you hear me? We're gonna stop the simulation. Lads?"

 

 

 

 

Eleven years old and you're kicking balls around in Stanley Park, just near the lake where you can see both Goodison and Anfield. It's Saturday afternoon and you couldn't get tickets for the derby but you're going to try and sneak in later anyway. You've got Ratcliffe on your back and he's got Rush on his. "D'you think," he says suddenly, "in twenty years we'll still know each other?"

You blink at him. "Yeah, 'course. S'not like you've got any other friends, do you?"

He scuffs his shoes at the grass. "Twenty years is a long time. Things might happen."

"Yeah, Liverpool might get relegated." You boot a ball at him. "I'll be wherever you are, Stevie. Swear down."

You promised.

 

 

 

 

"Carragher - " comes the word out of his mouth, but then it seems too long and unwieldy and he ends up with "Carra" instead, out of his feet locks catching Jamie by the shoulder as he pitches forward. "Don't chase the bloody rabbit, didn't we bloody say - "

"You were out of alignment too," Scholesy says sharp, coming into the room. "Too similar. You'll feed off of each other's traumas."

"We just need to adjust." Gary's breathing too heavy and he doesn't know why since he's barely moved. Jamie's head, damp with sweat, is pressed against his cheek. "Get used to it. Been a while."

"Gaz."

"Tomorrow. Swear down."

The words stick in his throat. He doesn't flinch away from Scholesy's stare.

"Okay. Tomorrow." They can't afford not to succeed and all of them know this. Scholesy nods and signals the tech guys to follow him out. At the door he pauses: "but if that's a bust then you're not going out there."

"Yeah." Gary looks at Jamie, who's snapped out of the daze and won't meet his eye. "You heard that, Carragher? If I don't get to fight again it's all your bloody fault."

Jamie mutters something that sounds like _fuck off_. Gary doesn't take it to heart.

"Everton. I should've known."

"Fuck off," Jamie says clearly this time, edging away from Gary as he props himself up. Stretches his legs out even as Gary tucks his own close into his chest. "Saw the light soon enough."

And Gary knows exactly how. Why. Who. _I'll be wherever you are, Stevie_ , even if it meant a different stadium. Stories written into songs; a luxury they can no longer afford.

"Hey," he says.

Jamie looks up, right at him. His eyes are grey. His forehead already creased like an old man. Something unspoken, something that words can't touch, maybe even the truth, settles in Gary's stomach. He sees Jamie's fists in the LOCCENT curled up and bleeding and knows that there isn't anyone else.

"That thing you asked just now? - yeah. I do."

Jamie blinks. "You know this isn't a fucking wedding, right?"

But he grins anyway, so Gary will take that. He'll take it all.

 

 

 

 

In his dreams:

  * A cathedral. High vaulted ceilings, stone pillars, rows and rows of pews that stretch out to the altar in front. Red carpet between.
  * David waiting for him in front. This is not a wedding. This is a funeral. David wearing black tie, hands folded together, head bowed.
  * He walks, and David remains the same distance away. The light at the end of the tunnel doesn't go out; it just can't be reached.



 

 

 

 

Seven in the morning and he's digging around his closet for the uniform when he sees a flash of red. He fishes it out, crumpled from its position in the corner, the sponsor's logo flaking off. Not worn it for eight years. When he enrolled he'd told himself to let go of all that old stuff; he'd brought it along anyway.

 

 

 

 

Scholesy texts him just before: _meet at the bay_. It doesn't come with _wanker_ attached.

When he gets there he sees the gaffer, arms folded, frowning, talking to Scholesy, also frowning. Jamie's standing to the side looking up at Red Devil. Also frowning.

Seems to be the order of the day. Gary assumes the appropriate expression as he approaches them, the gaffer holding him with a long look before nodding to Scholesy and walking back towards the LOCCENT.

"Gaffer wants you to give it a go in the real thing," Scholesy says to both of them. "There've been some seismic readings off of the Philippines so we might as well be ready."

The real thing. Eighty metres of fire and steel waiting to blow up. Like sitting on a powder keg.

"Scared?" Jamie asks, hiding something else inside that challenge.

"Like hell I am."

They suit up without speaking. That's fine; the Drift is silence. The last time Gary was in here half of the wall was missing and none of the HDUs worked. Now they flicker to life, buttons flashing yellow, vital signs normal. Scholesy had left the picture of Juan Mata scoring at Anfield exactly where David had taped it and Jamie makes a face but doesn't take it down.

"I'll bring me own next time."

"As if I'd let you."

"Pipe down," comes Scholesy's voice over the mic. "Gaffer's on deck. Conn-Pod secure. Get ready for the drop."

It jolts him no matter how many times he does it; free-fall straight down and your stomach turns and you feel for a moment like your brain's been left up there. "All this tech and you can't invent an easier way to get into the Conn-Pod," he whines, and Scholesy says, "pipe the fuck down."

"Scared?" Jamie asks again.

"Not on your life."

The Drift is silence. Gary sets his jaw and stares forward as the machinery clicks into place around him, as Scholesy begins the countdown. Silence in waking up on the beach alone. Silence as the helmets were ripped off of them in this very Conn-Pod. Silence now. No more of this.

"Initiating neural handshake," says Scholesy. "Three. Two. One."

 

 

 

 

You've burnt the toast again - shut up, it's just crispy - it's bad for your health and shit / red, red and singing / lost in a novelty hedge maze somewhere in the countryside, screaming because you think you'll never see your parents again / philip pass the ball, goddamnit! - you'd get it if you had better control! / vital signs vital signs vital signs ( _don't_ \- ) / boy with the red hair who wouldn't stop glaring / boy with the blonde hair ( _don't, Gary_ \- ) / heart in your mouth running onto the pitch for the first time / the first time he called you Jamie _(what?_ ) / cathedrals, cathedrals and churches / first time he gave you a smile ( _what -_ ) / I trust -

 

 

When you are ten you're put on a bike and you fall and you scrape your knees but it doesn't matter. You get back on and you try and you fall. And your knees are raw and your parents try to stop you because they want to put bandages on but you shrug them off. That's just time wasted. Your knees are raw but your jaw is set and you climb, fall, climb on again.

 

 

 

 

The Drift is Silence. Silence and calm, the clear flat surface of a lake. Jamie looks over and gives him a long, slow nod. Gary can - feel it inside his brain at the same time and. It's been a while.

"I can tell you're fond of me," Jamie says. "It's disgusting."

"Shut the fuck up," Gary says.

"All signs holding. Very good, boys."

"Give us a medal, then, Scholesy."

"Fat chance. Want to take her out for a spin?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Kaiju's coming."

 

 

 

 

Briefing, 0830 hrs:

  * Ragefang
  * Category IV
  * Height: 77.2 m
  * Weight: 2,856 tonnes
  * Power: Talons; airborne attack



 

 

 

 

"Gary, Jamie."

"Yes, gaffer."

"We won't send you out if you aren't ready."

Gary can imagine the gaffer peering over Scholesy's shoulder in the LOCCENT, looking at the strength of the handshake. Their rate of breathing, pulse, and he's already made a decision.

"You would," he says.

The gaffer laughs. "They're ready."

Ready and willing. In the water clear and calm they wait, stance slightly askew, arms up. Low guard / No. Jamie's a better boxer than Gary is so Gary trusts his judgement. Gary trusts _him_. It's a cause for consternation.

"I've been thinking," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Why's it called Ragefang if it's got talons but not fangs?"

Jamie shakes his head, marveling either at logic or stupidity.

"Listen - "

 

 

 

 

A low moan splits the sky. Did you / on it. Red Devil sinks to its knees then bursts into a sprint, circuitry and steel crashing through the water like shockwaves. They can see Ragefang now. Rearing up just in front, its snappish jaw unhinged and lolling towards them.

It _does_ have fangs. / Shut up.

Without breaking stride Red Devil lifts its fist and rams it into Ragefang's snout, driving it down towards the seabed. It growls, yanks backward; the action drags Red Devil along with it.

"Tilt 30%," says Scholesy. "Don't fall over, that's a very expensive slip."

Leg out / stabilising. It takes a hair too long. The advantage they'd had over Ragefang is gone; the Kaiju pushes itself off the seabed, launches towards them. Brace -

Teeth rip clean through the Red Devil's left arm and Jamie, on that side, gasps. A note of concern pings through the neural handshake but there's no time for that - Red Devil jerks aside, uses the momentum from pushing back to pinwheel across with its right arm, hooking into the eye of the kaiju.

Fall-back-push-on. The uppercut to Ragefang's jaw is weak, left arm barely functioning, but it's staggering enough for the rockets to swing into range; four explosions straight through Ragefang's chest, and there's a beat as it pauses, clawing at the glut of dark liquid that clots immediately over the wound.

"Fucking hell, it's self-healing."

"Tell us something we don't know."

"I ate a taco for lunch yesterday."

Don't joke / stop joking - Ragefang's up again, chest looking like it never had a hole through it at all. "Jesus," Gary draws a breath. Red Devil's feet ground into the seabed, and they wait. Are you - / Yes. The Kaiju lurches forward, haunches tight, then rockets into the air.

"Fuck - "

"Ten o'clock. Coming down fast."

Red Devil swings round and catches the glare of the sun. "Can't see a bloody thing," Jamie grunts. Gary hears the hiss of pain through his teeth and in his head.

"Estimated five seconds impact."

A dot carved out of the gleam; not a dot. Closer coming closer. Three, two - Red Devil jerks aside but Ragefang follows, remarkably, improbably, as if the whole thing wasn't improbable in the first place - a snap of its jaw, a burst of static. Jamie? - / silence. / A shudder - the sea - not again, not him again, not here again - / _Jamie? -_

 _Becksbecksbecksbecksbecks_ -

"Don't," Jamie's voice crackles over, "chase the fucking rabbit, you twat."

Red Devil shifts in its heels and swings its good arm out, raking the blades along the spine of the kaiju, pushing it off. The lull gives Gary the chance to look to his left. Circuitry gone mad and debris everywhere, a foot-long gap in the ceiling where you can see the sky blue through the wreckage. Jamie shoots him a tired grin.

"Did me a favour. Got rid of the picture."

Nothing left of it now but a torn corner of green. Gary grins back, heart so tight he has to do it consciously.

"I'll get us another one."

"Boys."

Ragefang's back clean as a whistle. All the weight shifted to Gary's side as Red Devil powers up the remaining Plasmacaster, fires a burst into Ragefang's gut that keeps it at length. The skin's already knitting back together as it disappears into the sun once more.

The arm. / Yes.

Red Devil's left hand dangles useless, serrated edges and broken spikes. As one they seize what's left of the arm and pull; it comes apart in a shower of sparks. The shock trembles through them both.

"That's public property," Scholesy says. The dryness of his voice suggests tacit approval. They kneel; knee dug into the ground, hand by the side. Will this work? / Worth a shot.

"Three seconds."

Ragefang screams down, down, down. Now, someone says. They shift; remarkably, improbably, Ragefang shifts with them. Not so improbable when you know it's coming. Now now _now_. Even as they're turning they're dragging it out of the water; a spray-mist showers what used to be a a jaeger's arm as it skewers Ragefang through the side, just as it cleaves into them.

Nothing to heal if the hole is permanent.

The impact of the hit bowls them back. The carcass is two thousand tonnes of deadweight and it pins Red Devil below it as the sea rushes up to meet them. The hole / what? / we need to get out. HDUs flickering red, in and out of life. Seawater spilling in through the gap that Ragefang had caused on Jamie's side. Jamie splutters, blinks. His helmet is cracked.

More water. Like a fish tank that suffocates the fish. "Eject," Scholesy's bellowing into Gary's ear. Jamie going under. Gary punches the numbers for Jamie's sequence; the computer coughs at him, somethingnothing happens. "Come _on_ ," he screams, punches the numbers again. A piston whines to life and dies.

Ragefang must have put that escape pod beyond repair. A hiss from behind him. Something else sounds like it's going to blow. Nothing but the sea visible outside. Now now _now_. Gary leans over, arm groping blindly. Finds the cable he's looking for and yanks. Jamie comes free, floats towards him in the rushing water that's pouring through the gaps. The helmets - too bulky. He pulls Jamie's off, red in his hands. His own. Better if they could shed the suits too, but there's no time.

Now now _now._

He punches in his own sequence. Finds Jamie's hand and gives it a tug; Jamie slides over him, chest pressed hard into his own, breath cool on his skin, eyes closed. Centimetres away.

Gary leans forward and kisses him. Once, quick, for good luck.  

Then they're in the pod, pressed so tight that sardines would be a misnomer - Gary feels Jamie's hand curl against his waist - the force of acceleration takes Gary's breath out of him - all dark. All dark.

 

 

 

 

In the rec centre:

  * A new tin of hot chocolate, unopened.



In David's old room:

  * A photograph of graduation, fallen through the cracks behind the bed where no one had thought to clean.



In Brisbane:

  * A small stone jaeger inscribed with the names of two pilots.



At the bottom of the ocean:

  * The skulls and bones of men long dead.
  * The ships of their time stripped bare and fading slowly away. The ships of ours alongside them.



 

 

 

 

Gary opens his eyes.

Scholesy's sitting besides him. He lifts his head. Gives Gary a wan smile, but says nothing.

On the bed just over Jamie lies still. His breath is shallow and cheeks are bruised; a bandage winds its way from under the hospital gown and across his arm.

 

 

 

 

Life hangs up, like that. A computer frozen on the same page. Gary leaves the hospital wing before Jamie wakes up, and in his room he finds strips of red fabric and a sponsor's logo that Scholesy's laid on his bed. He folds them carefully one by one. 

On telly he watches United blowing a three-nil lead against Everton, seventeen years ago. Three-one. Three-two. Three-all in the seventy-fifth minute and Rooney in blue damn near scores at the end, but it's Van Nistelrooy who breaks his hundred goals with the winner a minute from time. Buried under red shirts. The crowd going wild not from delight but relief.

They'd been so close to losing, Gary thinks. So close to losing again.

 

 

 

 

 

"You nearly killed yourself."

"What?"

Past midnight and Gary's found Jamie on the sofa, staring at a screen that isn't on. He sits down next to him and it's only after a minute of silence that Jamie speaks, looking at him with something odd that can't be made out in the dim light. "You nearly killed yourself," he says again.

Gary meets the gaze with his jaw squared. "I didn't."

"But you could've."

"This is a shit way to say 'thank you'."

"Thanks - " Jamie frowns. "That's not the point."

"Are you saying I'm the sort to leave people to die?"

"Depends where we're at through the season."

They grin at each other, suddenly, stupidly. Gary feels the blood rush to the tips of his ears.

"They're giving the new jaeger to us, apparently," Jamie says, when no words are forthcoming. "We didn't do too bad a job."

"Apart from the whole destroying-it-entirely thing. Two for two, Carragher. Were you very good at own goals?"

"Never mind that. I'm calling it Pacemaker II."

"The fuck you are."

"We're not having another Manc name."

"Goodison Park Ranger?"

"That's a crime, that."

"We'll figure something out."

Another pause. Jamie looks like he's going to say something, but doesn't. Gary stares past him down the empty corridor. Thinks of his jaeger lying at the bottom of the ocean, the devil on its chest. The memories folded into circuits now rusting away.

It feels like moving out; the boxes are packed and you're pulling out of the drive for the last time. He turns back to Jamie, who's waiting for him.

"Did you pass out?" he asks, careful to keep his voice even. "In the Conn-Pod, I mean. At the end."

The look of complete innocence that flickers over Jamie's face tells him everything that he needs to know. "Semi-conscious."

His ears must have gone even redder. "So you remember - ?"

"Not entirely." Jamie folds his arms and Gary hates that he can tell he's trying not to smirk. "I might need your help to jog my memory."

If it were an option Gary would box him, but they've only just gotten better, so Gary puts a hand around his neck and kisses him instead.

Slower this time. A milisecond's pause before he closes the distance between them, before Jamie draws a breath sharp and pushes back. Hand on his chest. Backward / forward. Fumbling against the arm of the sofa. Catch your breath / yes. They pause and look at each other, _really_ look, and Gary feels something stick in his throat, a half-forgotten dream, a light reached at last.

"Checkmate," Jamie says.

"I hate Everton almost as much as I hate Liverpool," Gary says.

Jamie shakes his head and kisses him again, urgent, insistent. Pulls at the hem of his shirt. Don't need this / yes. Fingers on skin. Fingers tangled in hair. Forward / backward. Lips warm against each other, eyes closed, heart pounding. Gary thinks of opening the windows in the new house, watching sunlight hit the glass. Thinks of cathedrals and churches and how funerals are held the same time as baptisms. Thinks: I trust you. / I trust you. / Okay.

 

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> \- title bastardised from [this poem](https://dosenherz.tumblr.com/post/146601051159/so-what-if-my-bones-are-made-from-the-same-dirt-as)  
> \- jaeger names: red devil for obvious reasons; welsh wizard bc i cannot think of a better name; pacemaker for gerry and the  
> \- I got all my kaiju names from [a generator](https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/pacific-rim-names.php)  
> \- stuff about injuries (I don't claim to be a doctor I'd be a lot more respected at chinese new year if I were): [x](https://orthoinfo.aaos.org/en/diseases--conditions/ankle-fractures-broken-ankle/) [x](https://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/health/conditionsandtreatments/rib-injuries) [x](https://advancedtissue.com/2016/03/signs-that-the-wound-healing-process-is-or-isnt-working/)  
> \- Sir Alex really [swears that much](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZ1epn2O3L4)  
> \- On boxing: [x](http://www.sneakpunch.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Which-Guard2.jpg) [x](http://www.mightyfighter.com/how-to-block-a-punch/) [x](https://www.expertboxing.com/boxing-strategy/boxing-offense/punching-from-close-range-inside-fighting)  
> \- Indeed, that was a [Classic Fifa video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzogfrv-WUw) reference  
> \- I looked up too many Pacific Rim websites/forums/technical bloody drawings to reference, even scifi.stackexchange, but the best resource was still the movie (movie singular; I haven't watched and don't intend to watch the hypothetical second one) 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3  
> (It's just occurred to me that this phrase could be read as 'thanks for Reading FC' and I'd like to assure you that no, I give no thanks for Reading FC)


End file.
